Alone and Forsaken
by hey citrus
Summary: It's Draco's 29th birthday party, and he'll cry, and cry and cry if he wants to. Oneshot. Post-war, not entirely epilogue-compliant. HPDM slash. Incredibly angsty!


Alone and Forsaken

by hey citrus

He is alone, in the cold kitchen of the cold house in which he grew up. Great golden platters of congealing and wilting food clutter every surface, and the shattered remnants of a smashed champagne bottle sparkle prettily like emeralds on the floor. The room still rings with the Disapparating crack of the house-elf at whom the bottle had been drunkenly flung.

He carries under one arm an ostentatious crystal punchbowl, sloshing lurid green liquid down the side of his black robes and white shirt with every stumbling step he takes. It clings to his skin in sugary rivulets, running down his trousers and pooling in his shoe, so that he squelches obscenely as he weaves across the room. He ignores it all; the wetness, the stickiness; the mess and discomfort and ruination beyond repair of his expensive new dress robes.

Sweeping violently aside a stack of dishes, which crack into chunks and china dust on the granite tiles, he haphazardly clunks the punchbowl down on the table and half-sits, half-collapses on a chair. Head lolling backwards, he squints up at the bright overheads. He frowns; waves the wand which he holds grasped in a gashed and bloody fist. All the bulbs in the kitchen explode in a shower of wafery glass, so that he sits for a minute in darkness. He takes a deep, sighing breath, and with another wave lights a solitary candle on the candelabra. The flickering light refracts through the punchbowl, casting a sickly green glow over his thin face.

He drinks like a dog from the bowl; goblet and dignity both long since lost. And like a dog scratching at fleas, he can't stop his mind from scratching repeatedly at the memories of that night. They come in clumps, with full, garish recall, brightly lit like scenes in a film. He slumps; resigned to their inevitable remembrance.

*

Mirrors. He remembers mirrors.

He remembers his cocky bedroom-reflection as he dresses, caught mid underwear-strut, seeing, _knowing_ how good he looks, with his slight, toned build, smooth chest and perfect, peachy arse encased within clinging boxers. He remembers, with shame, flexing his muscles at his mirror-self. He remembers, with deep sadness, thinking he looks irresistible.

He remembers the mirrors of the ballroom, large and ornate, covering the whole of one wall. He glimpses himself, dancing, twirling, confident in his new robes, flanked by sycophants; fawning friends he's known since his Slytherin days, drawn to his family's wealth and power. Even now, post-war, they cling thickly to him with dumb, dronish loyalty. He hates them. He needs them. He hates himself for needing them; for his need for human contact at any cost. His every move, every forced laugh and sneering put-down, every exaggerated anecdote, is designed to impress them, to impress his superiority on them. And it sickens him. But here, champagne-drunk, dancing, catching only blurred glimpses of them in the mirror; here, so long as he doesn't stop moving, their company is almost bearable.

He remembers the mirrored back of the grandfather clock, remembers his earlier nonchalant glances, and then, as the night draws on, the way his eyes cling greedily to the clock's hands, as if he could halt them or drag them back by the power of his gaze.

Eyes on the mirrored clock... eyes scanning the mirrored wall… not dancing now, not giddy, not showing off to his toadying crowd. Sullen, needy, with an ache in his stomach that has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he's consumed, or the lack of food. Drawing reproachful glances and under-breath admonitions from his parents; his mother fussing and shrewish, his father pale and disdainful. Snapping at them to leave him alone, for Merlin's sake, just leave him _alone_.

He remembers the one perfect moment of the night. The one moment where the lead in his stomach turns to helium, and he could float out through the open windows with broomstick grace. The moment when _he_ appears. The reflected sight of the back of his head; dark, wild hair struggling to free itself from its waxy prison. The way he walks; so assured. The way his robes hang on him as if robes and man were sculpted as one perfect entity. Watching, he wants to take it all in, to gorge on this perfection, to fill himself up on it. _Don't turn around_, he thinks, _not yet_. He is itchy with nerves, breathless with fear and hope. He, who has always had the utmost scorn for Divination, places all of his hopes on a sign. _If he turns around and smiles at me_, he thinks, _it will all be okay._

And then, despair. Despair, as he indeed turns around, and indeed smiles. But at _her_. The previously unseen her, who is now making her sickeningly graceful and feminine way across the dance floor, two glasses of champagne held high. She hands _him_ one; they link and cross their glass-holding wrists in front of their faces, and, giggling, take sips of the fizzing liquid. They are looking only at each other, their obvious love beaming through the room, full colour against a black and white background, and oh god he can't stand it and he's stumble-running and cursing and pushing people out of the way, oh god, oh god…

The next mirror he sees is the one above his bathroom sink. His reflection mocks him as he stares unsteadily ahead, vomit dripping down his chin into the already-splattered sink below. He coughs; spits; wipes his face with his shirtsleeve. He is crying messily, desperately, in huge, gulping sobs. He cannot get enough air into his lungs, and slumps dizzily to the floor, where he hugs his knees to his burning face and bawls, mouth twisted in an ugly, silent scream.

He has quieted by the time the knock comes. Not cried out by any means, but exhausted and lapsing into a troubled half-sleep on the bathroom floor. The knock startles him; it is loud and insistent, growing more so as he ignores it. He is unperturbed. Nothing matters now. He will wait and they will go away. He will remain here on this floor until he turns to stone; becomes part of the features. A grotesque gargoyle; a pathetic monument to his failure.

The voice that carries under the door, jolting him from his introspection, is hushed and husky; but he recognises it at once. He jumps to his feet, heart thumping with sticky-sweet panic. He lurches to the sink, wrenches the taps on full, trying at once to swill the vomit down the plughole and scrub it from his face and clothes.

"I know you're in there." That voice again, soft but determined.

He somehow manages to choke out a response, in a high-pitched voice he doesn't recognise as his own.

"I… just a minute!"

He smears toothpaste inside his mouth then floods it with water, swooshing and gargling, spitting the foul mouthful into the sink. He smoothes his hair, straightens his soiled, wet robes. He tries, and fails, to breathe.

He cannot put it off any longer. Head lowered, eyes on his feet, he paces with trepidation to the door. Unlocks it. Turns the handle, and slowly, so slowly pulls it open.

"Mal… Draco," says the figure in the doorway, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger. His voice is gentle, full of concern.

"Harry." Draco's voice is broken, full of need. But he hangs back, trying to force his features into a look of casual composure.

"So you… you came," he stutters.

"Of course I came. It's your birthday. I mean, I was a bit surprised to have been invited. After all this time. But yeah, of course we…_ I_ did."

"Oh. Of course, Mother sent the invitations. She's… not herself these days. She… must have invited you by mistake," he bristles coldly, suddenly defensive at this knife-through-his-heart reminder that Harry didn't come alone.

"Look, Draco. Let's not start all that old nonsense again," Harry says, with a new edge to his voice. "I didn't come here to watch you getting your kicks by insulting me. If that's the way it's going to be, well I'm sorry…"

And he turns and makes as if to leave.

Draco panics.

"Harry, wait!" he blurts, not caring about how desperate he sounds.

Harry stops mid-turn, swings back around to face Draco, who has taken a step forward and is now swaying drunkenly without the bathroom door to support him.

Harry brushes a strand of wayward hair from his forehead and Draco melts. He wants to kiss those long fingers, kiss the place where the lightning-bolt scar still shines out as bright as when Harry was a child. The longing of years wells up in him and overflows from his eyes as fresh, uncontrollable tears. Humiliated, he turns away, so that he doesn't have to see the embarrassed, uncomfortable look on Harry's face.

"Draco," says Harry. And the sound of that voice gently speaking his name sends a fresh shudder of longing and grief through his body. Hands to his face, he sobs.

"Draco," says Harry again, and it's not a question, it's a command.

He stops mid-sob, uncovers his blotchy, red face, and turns towards Harry once more. Harry is looking at him steadily; there is no judgement in his eyes, and for some reason this makes Draco feel worse. Smaller, more exposed.

"Why don't you tell me what all this is about?" says Harry. Again, it's not a question.

Draco is silent for a moment; hesitant; ashamed. And then it all comes out in a rush. The waiting, the frustration, the longing. And the final self-imposed ultimatum that he would not; _could_ not spend another year like this. That he would resolve it this year; for better or worse; that he would resolve it by his birthday.

Harry listens until Draco has rambled himself dry, and stands silent, sloppy-drunk and shining-eyed with the relief of the truth. Harry is silent for a moment. Then, with a slight frown, he speaks.

"But Draco… it's been ten years…_ ten _years!"

Draco shrugs and sniffs.

"And, all this time?"

Draco nods.

"But it was just one night!" he exclaims, causing Draco to visibly wince.

"I'm sorry," he continues, "I didn't mean… I mean, it was a good night. I… don't regret it. But we were practically children! I thought it was… one of those things, you know?"

"No," says Draco, fierily. "I don't know, Harry. To _you_ it might have been one of those things. To me it was… everything. I'd never shown my _self_ to anyone before. My true self, I mean. I was always just that evil bastard Draco Malfoy, son of that evil bastard Lucius Malfoy, one of a long line of evil bastard Malfoys. And yeah, I hated you at first. Perfect bloody Potter, the hero. You never even had to try. People just… respected you. Me, I had to bully respect out of people. Just like my bastard fucking father."

"Draco, you don't have to…" interrupts Harry.

"Yes, Potter, I do," snaps Draco. "Please, Harry," he softens. "I want you to hear this. So, yeah, I hated you. And I know you hated me too. All those years at Hogwarts. And I was so… such an insufferable prick to you. I deserved your hatred. But then, in the battle… when you saved me… I didn't know why. I didn't deserve that. I would have sold your soul to save my own. Merlin knows I tried. But it affected me so much. And I stopped hating you. And started… thinking about you. A lot. And then that night in Hogsmeade…"

He blushes; smiles; and this uncharacteristic expression softens his angular face so that he is almost unrecognisable.

"Well… you remember. But do you remember afterwards? When you lay in my arms and I stroked your hair until you fell asleep? And I held you all night, and I couldn't sleep because it was so bloody perfect and I didn't want it to stop. And the next morning, when we said goodbye… I thought… well…"

"That we'd see each other again? That it would happen again?" prompts Harry.

"Yeah," he laughs, bitterly. "I thought you felt the same as I did. But when you didn't respond to my owls… I don't know. I just thought you were scared. That you'd come around. And then you didn't. And I didn't send any more owls. But I never stopped… thinking about you. Like that. And… I've told you the rest," he finishes, lamely. Unable to use the words he really wants to, even now, even in the face of all this confession. Because to leave himself that open and vulnerable is unthinkable. He thinks fleetingly of the children he used to bully at Hogwarts; Crabbe and Goyle each holding an arm so that he could punch the victim in the stomach.

Harry screws up his face and speaks with the finality of a judge passing sentence.

"Draco, I'm sorry but I'm not… I'm with…"

"Don't say her name!" pleads Draco.

"Ginny," finishes Harry, firmly.

Draco moans and flings himself onto Harry. Half-hugging, half-leaning, he clasps his arms around the other man's broad shoulders. Clumsily he begins to stroke his back; face pressed in the hollow of Harry's neck, breathing alcohol fumes into his ear. He blubs and babbles semi-coherent apologies and pleas and promises.

"S'not right for you… don't you remember, Harry… it was so good… we were so good… it's okay… I'm sorry for everything… I can make it better… I can be better… oh, Harry… please, Harry…I can be good for you…"

And then he is on the floor, sprawled on his back, dazedly wondering how he got there. He looks up. Harry towers above him, grim-faced.

"Draco, I really think it best that we don't see each other again. I'm sorry. I hope things get better for you, I really do."

And then he is gone.

The last mirror Draco remembers is the bathroom one again, as it shatters into a thousand splintered pieces under the force of his clenched knuckles.

*

And so he sits, alone and distraught, in the cold kitchen, head slumped in the empty punchbowl, one puffy cheek squashed against the damp glass, teeth exposed in a mock half-snarl. His right hand lies on the table, glittering with pieces of broken mirror bordered by dark, clotting blood.

Lapsing in and out of consciousness, he dreams of Harry soaring in on his broomstick and diving for him with both hands outstretched, as though he were the Snitch. He dreams of Harry casting a charm to make his hand spit out the shards of glass, to shrink away the pools of thick blood, making the skin white and smooth again. Of Harry undressing him and bathing him; sponging away all that he has spilt; gently washing his hair and his face; dressing him in the softest robes and tucking him into a feathery four-poster. Planting a tender kiss on his head, and drawing all the sad thoughts from him with a wave of his wand. Draco can see them, the sad thoughts, rising from him like steam, like vapour; evaporating harmlessly into the night air, leaving him pure.

*

He forces open his gluey eyes. The room is bright with dawn. His head is filled with throbbing concrete. His shredded hand is agony. He gasps like a caught fish for water to moisten his arid mouth. He is sheened with blood, vomit, dried tears, sweat and sticky alcohol. His robes feel crispy; they chafe him. His backside is bruised. His face is puffy and swollen.

He surveys the wreckage of the room. Broken glass, broken china. Puddles of green staining the floor. Dried blood tacky on the oak table. Scattered drips and heaps of hardened wax from where he let the solitary candle burn to the stub.

The bright dawn washes over him. He hears birds trilling and calling to one another, out there. Out there in the green, unspoilt _now_.

He rises like an old man from his chair.

He surveys the mess he has made and wonders how he will clean it; where he will start.

He is still alone.

He is still alone, and one year older.

He is still alone, and one year older, and alive.


End file.
